Not A Hero
by Collapsus
Summary: Dick Grayson is falling. Will there be anyone to catch him? Set after the events of Nightwing #93


He hadn't moved. For two days. He felt perfectly content with just staring up at the ceiling above him. When anyone asked he'd just mumble that he was fine. He was embarrassed, shameful, disgusting and everything in between.

He had failed Bruce. He had failed everyone. But most importantly, he had failed himself. Then she had forced herself onto him and he couldn't do anything about it. A big mess of shock and trauma was what he was.

He couldn't remember last time he dared to met Bruce's gaze. The words he wanted to say to him was buried deep in his throat waiting to finally scream out. But yet, he couldn't.

"Oh, god…" he whispered and closed his eyes. It was eating him from the inside, it was impossible to let go of it. Impossible was the word. The gun shot echoed in his ears daring him to climb onto the next step on the ladder.

He didn't know where it was going to lead him though. Perhaps he was looking madness straight in the eye, he wasn't sure. But he was on the edge, the very edge about to fall down.

There was the doomed sound of the knocking on the door and he was forced back into reality. Steps were closing in, eyes watching him. A hand on his forehead.

"-haven't eaten….-have to…wrong?" he didn't quite follow the words and tried to move away from the physical contact. But strong hands held him in the same place and wouldn't let go.

One single tear revealed everything and he was pulled up into an embrace. The embrace was somewhat signaling the seriousness of the situation. In Wayne Manor embraces weren't handed out on a regular basis, unless they were coming from Dick himself.

"You have to eat something." He just automatically shook his head, not even taking in the words, which had been his response to everything during these few days. He was just too tired, he just wanted to rest. but he couldn't even do that, his dreams were haunted by that sound. He'd never forget.

"I've failed you…" he managed to whisper with closed eyes. The man holding him was so happy to finally get a response out of the young man that he pulled him closer and said:

"You have done no such thing." It was then that another voice ushered him to drink and when he did so he felt drowsiness coming over him. In the back of his mind he knew that drugging him was the intention. And for that he was grateful.

"Don't know what to do, he has completely cut himself off from any contact, perhaps a psychiatrist…" the voice faded out as he opened his eyes. He felt a little bit better with finally being able to get a good night's sleep, but still he had no intention of moving. He thought of just staying there until he was no longer aware of time, no longer aware of what put him in this state. But it seemed the other two people in the room had other plans.

"Dick," he barely recognized the voice. Because it was Bruce's, but speaking with such a gentle tone he'd never heard before. "Dick, talk to me," the voice pleaded and he felt fingers caressing his hair.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to choke out.

"You don't have to apologize for anything," he heard the desperation in the man's voice and he knew that he had put him in this state. But he couldn't stop continuing to whisper:

"I'm sorry… so sorry…" Bruce held him closer and he could sense that desperation in him still. Because Bruce couldn't help him. He despised the feeling of helplessness. And he had no idea what was going through the boy's head.

It was on the third day he managed to pull himself somewhat together and head for the bathroom. He watched the room before him and saw Bruce sitting in a chair next to the bed, sleeping. How he must have worried him. Silently he stepped out into the corridor.

He looked at that person in the mirror. And he was yet again disgusted by himself.

Bruce woke up to the sound of something crashing and instantly was up on his feet. He scanned the room quickly with his eyes and remembered the situation. But Dick was gone.

"Dick?" he almost feared the answer, if he'd get one. He detected a small sob coming from the bathroom across the bedroom. It was no match for him getting the door open, it was the scene before him that nearly shattered his heart.

A broken mirror, in pieces on the floor, his Richard sitting in a corner. Shaking uncontrollably.

Without giving it a second thought he sat down next to the boy and put a strong arm around his shoulder. It hurt him to see Dick his way, and unless he let him help him there was nothing he could do to make it better.

"Bruce," his whisper begun yet again with those words he'd constantly said yesterday. Bruce didn't even think he had been aware of how many times he had repeated how sorry he was for something he couldn't seem to mention.

If the boy had ever truly needed Bruce, it was now. Dick had suffered in his past, but he'd never been this broken. So shattered, as if he was the one lying in pieces all on the floor, not the mirror.

"I'm not a hero anymore," he whispered with realization as if the truth of his own words had just struck him. Bruce had no idea of what he spoke of and reassured him that he was and always had been.

"I… killed… I let him die…" When Dick looked down upon his hands he could only see the blood covering them. It had been all his fault. He could have stopped it. He didn't. Now he had blood on his hands. In panic he stood up and let his hands go down in the sink, frantically scrubbing them. The blood wouldn't go away.

"Dick," the voice behind him spoke. "You are no murderer. Look at your hands." Bruce forced him to really look down at his hands. "Look at yourself." Bruce's hand guided him to look into the mirror.

Then he saw. His hands were clean, his eyes were still the same old blue ones.


End file.
